The Ties That Bind
The tapping at the window woke her. Parvati, Lavender, and Katie were still deep in sleep—or at least that’s how it seemed, given the drawn curtains around their beds. Hermione sat up sluggishly, blinking away the haze of sleep, and walked to the window.
There, a black tawny owl stared at her with narrowed, deep violet eyes—an unusual color that could only rival those of its owner. Hermione had seen the massive owl delivering letters to Draco Malfoy before, but she had never really noticed its eyes. Now, as it fixed her with that expectant, sharp gaze, she understood perfectly where it had learned that air of restrained irritation.
The owl pecked at the glass again, impatient, carrying the same arrogance its master displayed whenever he didn’t get an immediate response. Hermione sighed and quickly unlatched the window. The owl extended a claw, and when she cautiously held out her hand, it dropped a neatly folded parchment into her palm. Then, as if judging her, it tilted its head with an indignant huff and took off into the morning sky with an elegant, silent flight.
Hermione shut the window and returned to her bed, pulling the curtains around her four-poster to ensure privacy. With a quick motion, she untied the platinum-colored ribbon securing the note (such a predictable color) and unfolded the parchment.
It was brief.
Third-floor Ancient Runes classroom, 7:15. Come alone. We don’t need an audience.
—DLM
She cast a quick Tempus. 6:30.
Exhaling in frustration, she ran a hand over her face. It irritated her how easily Draco assumed she would follow his orders, as if she were one of his lackeys. But what irritated her even more was that she was already getting up, making sure she’d be ready in time.
The castle was still quiet at this hour. Only a handful of students wandered the corridors, most heading toward the Great Hall for breakfast. Hermione, however, took a different route—one she was starting to know all too well.
The staircases adjusted to her steps as if they already knew where she was going. When she reached the third floor, she stopped in front of the Ancient Runes classroom. Taking a deep breath, she wrapped her fingers around the doorknob.
The moment she opened the door, a firm pull yanked her inside. The door slammed shut behind her with a resounding thud, and before she could react, her back hit the cold stone wall.
And then, Draco was on her.
His mouth crashed onto hers with a desperate urgency, his hands gripping her waist, pulling her against him with a certainty that made her shiver. Hermione gasped against his lips, but there was no time for hesitation, no room for resistance. Their bodies had already fallen into the rhythm of a dangerous game neither of them dared to name.
Draco’s fingers tightened over the fabric of her robes, marking the pressure of his hold. His kiss wasn’t just a fleeting touch—it was hunger restrained, need disguised as control. Hermione felt the heat spread through her skin, and though her mind screamed that this was only an excuse to “remember,” her body clung to him just as fiercely.
When they finally broke apart, breathless, Draco rested his forehead against hers.
“Don’t forget why we’re doing this,” he murmured, his voice rough.
Hermione swallowed hard, her lips still tingling.
“Of course,” she replied, but her tone lacked conviction.
Draco let his fingers linger on her waist before finally stepping away. Hermione felt the cold air rush in where he had been, but she forced herself not to react. She wouldn’t react.
She straightened her uniform with quick, precise movements, as if that could restore the control she’d just lost over herself. Draco, on the other hand, took his time. He ran a hand through his hair with that calculated indifference that always exasperated her, as if the fevered touch of moments ago had left him completely unaffected.
“We needed that,” he finally said, his voice light, almost careless—a justification meant more for himself than for her.
Hermione lifted her chin, matching his impassive mask.
“Yes,” she answered without hesitation. “To remember.”
Draco smirked. His gaze flickered over her, filled with both amusement and something else—something she chose not to decipher.
“Exactly.”
The Ancient Runes classroom remained dim, the morning light barely filtering through the dust-covered windows, casting long shadows over the ancient runes carved into the stone walls. Hermione tried to focus on the symbols scattered across the room, on the magic still humming in the air—on anything that wasn’t the lingering warmth on her skin.
But when her eyes met Draco’s, she knew he felt it too.
Because the truth was, they both knew this wasn’t just about remembering.
Since the night before, when they had locked eyes after their second kiss, it had become clear that the hazy recollections of that drunken night were beginning to sharpen. They hadn’t spoken about it directly, of course. They were both too proud for that. But somewhere along the way, without words, they had come to the same conclusion: a few kisses wouldn’t hurt if they helped them remember.
It had been Hermione who first mentioned the enchantment on Draco’s bottle, a Portkey spell that, apparently, had kept them supplied with alcohol throughout the night. Draco recalled that she had insisted on playing some ridiculous game with the empty bottle, and Hermione, with carefully measured patience, explained that she had been attempting to modify a Muggle game she had seen in a movie with her cousin Charlotte last summer.
The detail seemed to annoy Draco even more, as if the mere idea of drawing inspiration from something Muggle was a personal insult. Hermione noticed and secretly enjoyed the flicker of distaste on his face.
But beyond that, the logic was undeniable: physical contact was the fastest way to trigger their memories. No one would get hurt. It didn’t mean anything.
So why not do it?
“See you at breakfast,” Hermione murmured, turning away before her voice could betray her.
Draco didn’t stop her. He didn’t even reply.
Because they both knew this wouldn’t be their last secret meeting.
Breakfast passed in apparent tranquility. Hermione sat in her usual spot next to Ginny, who was already seated beside Neville. Across from them were Harry, Ron, Seamus, and Dean, as usual. Draco entered the Great Hall alongside Theo and Blaise, and this time, he decided it was appropriate to sit with his girlfriend at the Gryffindor table. Even Blaise, taller and darker than Draco, accompanied them this time. Draco took a seat next to Hermione, and his two companions settled beside him.
“Good morning,” he greeted simply, followed by Theo, who grinned mischievously, as if he were plotting something. Blaise merely inclined his head without addressing anyone in particular.
Each of them summoned a plate, and Draco broke the awkward silence that had begun to settle, directing his words at Harry.
“You know, Potter, I never thought you'd use your fame to request extra Quidditch practice time. The pitch isn’t usually available on weekends.” He sliced a piece of bread and brought it to his mouth, waiting for a response.
“I have no idea what you're talking about, Malfoy. I didn’t request anything,” Harry replied.
Hermione cleared her throat, prompting Ginny to stifle a small laugh as she continued her breakfast.
“Oh,” Draco said, feigning nonchalance. “Then my apologies for the misunderstanding. A mistake on my part.”
The entire table, including his own friends, turned to look at Draco, but it was Ron who voiced what everyone was thinking.
“Since when do you apologize, Malfoy?”
The truth was, Draco didn’t know either. But for some stupid reason, he felt the need to fit in, to make things easier for himself. Or at least, that’s what he told himself, as if attempting to justify his recent actions.
He set down his fork and knife and shrugged.
“What can I say?” He stretched his arm behind Hermione, resting his hand casually on her shoulder. “This witch seems to be making me a better wizard.”
An audible gagging sound came from Theo and Ginny simultaneously, while Hermione flushed crimson.
“It’s hard to tell if you're being serious,” Harry remarked flatly.
The truth was, that single touch sent a jolt through Hermione. She wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, but she was definitely confused. By all logic, she should be resistant to his contact, yet her body seemed to accept it without protest. Draco leaned in, whispering something trivial in her ear, but the warmth of his breath against her skin put her on high alert. She tried to distract herself, playing with her fork, pretending to be indifferent. But she had the distinct impression that Draco enjoyed tormenting her like this.
In a move of retaliation, she speared a piece of bacon and, without a word, held it up to his lips—just as he had done to her once before. For a brief moment, Draco seemed torn between accepting it or not. Then, his gray eyes flickered toward the professors’ table. He didn’t have to guess. A slow smirk curved his lips as he opened his mouth, accepting the bite, his gaze holding Hermione’s with an unspoken request to continue.
Hermione resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder but grabbed a piece of fruit this time, offering it to him. Draco’s eyes darted between her and the same spot at the staff table until he finally realized the rest of the Gryffindor table was watching them with varying expressions—confusion, amusement, and in Ron’s case, absolute horror.
Draco was caught between the satisfaction of being doted on by Hermione, even if it was just a game, and the unwavering gaze of Aurélie, who hadn't taken her eyes off him. He shifted his focus slightly to her companion, Charlie Weasley, whose jaw was visibly clenched. Draco made a mental note to mention this to Hermione later. After a few more bites, he grew tired of the attention and continued eating on his own, just as Hermione did—seemingly determined not to look up again.
“Smart witch,” he mused.
Although they didn’t share lunch, Draco made sure to intercept Hermione on her way out of the Great Hall, slipping a note into her hand as she passed. She clenched her fingers around it and read it later—it contained yet another one of his demands. This time, he had chosen the smaller greenhouse for their meeting after dinner.
The thought unsettled her. Did that mean they wouldn’t be having dinner together? Was she actually disappointed by that? By Merlin, hell must have frozen over. When had she started wanting to share meals with Draco? It had to be the strange bond between them—surely, there was no other explanation. Hermione took a slow, measured breath.
After dinner, she wavered between obeying his summons or not. Her hesitation felt like an act of rebellion against Draco’s orders—or at least, that’s what she told herself. She refused to admit that she was both anxious and eager to see him. But instead of heading to the greenhouse, she decided to make up some excuse later and walked to the library instead. It would be closing in an hour, just enough time to browse for something new. There was always something new to look up.
She was standing in a secluded corner, absentmindedly flipping through a book, when she felt his presence behind her.
Draco had left the Great Hall five minutes after Hermione and had gone straight to the greenhouse. When he didn't find her there, he waited precisely one minute before deciding he had been stood up. He returned to the castle, his irritation mounting as he considered where she might have gone. The answer came to him almost immediately—he couldn’t enter the Gryffindor common room, but he could certainly check the library.
And there she was, standing in front of a bookshelf, her expression peaceful—an infuriating contrast to his own rising frustration. Did she even know she had left him waiting? His order had been clear, and she had ignored it.
Positioning himself behind her, he was prepared to confront her. But as he leaned in, the familiar scent of vanilla and hyacinths filled his senses, stopping him in his tracks. He swallowed down the growl of frustration that threatened to escape, caught between his anger and something else—something far more dangerous.
Instead of snapping at her, he peered over her shoulder.
“History of Magic, Granger?” he murmured.
“How the hell is that supposed to help us?”
“I can’t spend all my time on ‘us,’” she retorted, raising her hands in air quotes to emphasize that there was no actual ‘us.’
Draco had the impulse to challenge that, to remind her just how real this was. But provoking her was far more entertaining—and suited him better. He leaned in just enough to brush his nose against her cheek as he exhaled, taking his time.
Hermione inhaled sharply, her grip tightening on the book in her hands.
“Get lost, Malfoy,” she muttered, but her voice lacked conviction.
Draco smirked against her skin.
“Make me,” he whispered.
Hermione turned her head, intending to respond, but that was her mistake. Draco seized the moment, closing the distance and capturing her mouth with his. The kiss was anything but timid. He held her firmly, and she clung to his robes as if that could steady her. It was a clash of restrained emotions, of unspoken challenges and silent surrenders.
He pressed her gently against the bookshelf, deepening the kiss with an unexpected desperation. Hermione melted into the sensation—the warmth of his body, the way his lips seemed to fit perfectly with hers.
And for the first time, she didn’t want to run.
Draco pulled her even further out of sight, guiding her toward a secluded corner of the library he had once explored with Pansy. He never let go of her, keeping her trapped in the heat of their bodies and the taste of their lips. At first, the difference in their heights made the urgency of the moment awkward, forcing them to stumble between breathless kisses and shaky gasps. But neither seemed willing to part, not even to steady themselves.
Frustrated by the physical barrier, Draco acted on impulse. His hands slid down to Hermione’s thighs, and with surprising ease, he lifted her, coaxing her legs around his waist. He expected her to resist, to protest—but instead, he felt her breath hitch against his lips, a soft gasp melting into the kiss, sending a jolt of fire through his veins.
With determined steps, he carried her to a half-empty bookshelf and sat her on one of the sturdier compartments, positioning her so their faces were perfectly aligned. Hermione still clung to him, her fingers gripping the back of his neck as if letting go was unthinkable, as if the very air depended on their closeness.
That raw, undeniable desire only fueled him further.
With slow, deliberate movements, he loosened Hermione’s tie and unfastened a few buttons of her shirt—just enough to reveal the delicate curve of her throat. A shiver ran through her as his warm breath ghosted over her collarbone. Draco cursed himself inwardly, fearing he had pushed too far, but when his gaze met Hermione’s, there was no hesitation in her eyes.
Only hunger.
A hunger so intense it stole his breath, urging him to claim the soft skin of her neck with heated kisses, his hands gripping her thighs, tracing slow, tantalizing paths that made her tremble.
Hermione shuddered under his touch. Draco’s hands burned against her exposed skin, igniting a fire that left her dizzy. How had they even gotten here? She didn’t know, and right now, she didn’t care. She only wanted to feel.
None of McLaggen’s kisses had ever come close to this. In fact, they had never even reached this level of intimacy, of rawness. She had assumed that was simply how these things were—that physical closeness would always feel uninspired. It was why she had never understood Parvati’s or Lavender’s excitement when they gushed about their encounters with William and Tony, the Hufflepuffs from their year.
But with Draco, it was different.
Her body didn’t just respond to his touch—it craved it. If begging was what it took to keep feeling him, she would.
Draco pulled her even closer, and she instinctively tightened her legs around his torso. It still wasn’t enough. She needed more. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer with a desperation that surprised even her. When she heard him exhale sharply against her neck, she shut her eyes, surrendering to the sensation.
And then, a memory clouded her mind.
Draco froze, his lips barely grazing Hermione’s, as if the air itself had thickened between them. Their eyes met, reflecting the same raw emotion—the same mix of longing and fear.
And then, the magic pulsed.
Not just the heat crackling between them, but something older, deeper. A familiar echo seeped into their minds, like the whisper of a buried memory.
The words resonated in their consciousness, not as a simple recollection, but as something alive, unbreakable. Draco felt their weight pressing against his chest, each syllable returning with the same force as that night.
"If love is not our fate… then it will not be our end."
Hermione shivered in his arms. She could hear it too. The certainty of those words sent a chill down her spine.
"We will not seek it, we will not recognize it, we will not accept it."
Draco’s voice in her mind intertwined with her own, as if they were both trapped in an echo they could never silence.
"We will not be salvation nor solace. We will not be longing nor loss."
Her breathing turned erratic. The pact had been clear, every promise etched into their magic, into their very bones.
"If love did not want us, then let it never find us."
Draco shut his eyes tightly, a knot forming in his throat as he remembered the conviction with which they had spoken those words. Words that now felt like shackles.
"Let this pact make us unyielding, let it hold us when all else fails."
Hermione felt a cold shudder ripple through her. Back then, those words had seemed like salvation—armor against pain. But now, tangled in Draco’s arms, with his breath warm against her skin, they felt like a curse.
"Let our magic rise as one, impenetrable and indivisible."
Draco swallowed hard. How had they been so blind? How had they not foreseen this?
"Let it strengthen us in its union… and punish us in its absence."
The weight of the final words crashed over them like an unbreakable spell. Hermione felt something inside her tear.
Because now, she understood.
The pact hadn’t made them unbreakable.
It had bound them in chains.
Hermione seemed to recall something from a book she had consulted the previous week, before her research on Quidditch. Her expression shifted abruptly, and Draco, catching the signal, stepped back. As if the air between them suddenly cleared, both adjusted their uniforms, trying to regain composure. It took Draco a little longer; the obvious bulge in his trousers didn’t disappear right away.
Noticing, Hermione cleared her throat and averted her gaze, though the flush on her cheeks betrayed her.
When she was ready, she met his eyes. Their connection was so tangible that words weren’t necessary. With one last glance, she turned and swiftly descended the stairs. Draco followed without question.
Hermione entered the vast Charms section as if her feet already knew the way. She had the library memorized. Her fingers skimmed the book spines at a rapid pace while she murmured, almost desperately:
—Invisible Bonds… Invisible Bonds…
Draco overheard and, deducing that was the title, began searching as well. He found it quickly—an old yet remarkably well-preserved tome, bound in dark leather with embossed details. Its title, engraved in silver lettering, gleamed under the candlelight:
"Invisible Bonds: The Magic of Pacts and Fates"
By Edgar Thorne
Without hesitation, Draco pulled it from the shelf and walked toward Hermione, who looked on the verge of a panic attack. Without a word, he handed it to her.
—This is it —she whispered upon seeing it.
She immediately moved toward a table, Draco right behind her. They sat side by side, but whereas she had been desperate to consult it moments ago, now her hands trembled over the cover, hesitating.
Draco took her hand without fully understanding why. Perhaps a clumsy attempt to steady her.
—Granger, just open it. I know you’ve already figured out the answer in that brilliant mind of yours. Let’s just confirm it.
Hermione swallowed hard.
—I’m scared, Malfoy. If I remember correctly—and I usually do—we’ve made a terrible mistake.
A shiver ran down Draco’s spine, but he forced himself to remain calm.
—Whatever it is, Granger, we’re in this together.
Hermione took a deep breath, and as if his words gave her the last bit of courage she needed, she opened the tome.
The pages, marked with notes from past readers, were yellowed but pristine. Draco suspected the book was rarely consulted, forgotten in a corner of outdated magic.
Suddenly, the letters on the page seemed to draw themselves before their eyes, as if the spell itself recognized their presence.
Fatum Ligare (Bound Fate) -
Hermione looked up and met Draco’s gaze. She swallowed thickly. Without saying a word, they began reading in eerie synchrony.
The contents of the book distilled into a chilling truth:
This spell appeared to be an ancient variation of a binding enchantment, designed to connect two people under an emotional or sentimental agreement. It did not magically compel them to fulfill it, but the farther they strayed from their promise, the more they would feel the emotional weight of the pact.
Fate: Once the pact was made, their paths would intertwine, even if they tried to separate.
Bound: Not just a verbal or emotional agreement, but something deeper—almost inescapable. Magic reinforced it, making it impossible to ignore without consequences.
The characteristics of the pact included activation only through mutual consent. A memory surged within them—though intoxicated, they had been willing… or so it seemed.
It was not a lethal enchantment, but it created a latent magical bond that would weigh upon them until the pact was fulfilled or naturally broken. That explained the magical pull they felt when apart or when attempting to use magic at a distance, like during the Quidditch match.
The magic of the pact “wore down” when the truth became evident. But that remained an enigma—what truth? Which of their words held the key? Perhaps all of them?
Finally, the pact could manifest its breaking through a subtle effect—a shiver, a faint flash, the sensation of something “detaching” from them. This had yet to happen, but the mere mention of the possibility filled them with fragile, dangerous hope.
The immediate effects of the pact were subtle yet significant. Hermione recalled the vibration in her wand just before she felt her magic completely drained. Draco, on the other hand, remembered the same sensation moments before collapsing unconscious in the Charms classroom.
As long as the pact remained, they would experience an inexplicable connection—intrusive thoughts, shivers, involuntary reactions whenever they attempted to distance themselves emotionally. Suddenly, everything made sense: the dreams, the suffocating attraction in each other’s presence…
But what they read next made Hermione’s throat tighten.
If one suffers, the other will feel it in some way. Not necessarily as physical pain, but as a weight in the chest, an inescapable sense of unease.
Draco scoffed in irritation.
—So now I have to make sure you’re happy, Granger? Fantastic. —He ran a hand down his face, exasperated at the mere thought of being emotionally bound to her.
But Hermione barely registered his sarcasm. Her mind replayed every inexplicable feeling she had experienced since that night. The uncharacteristic compassion that drove her to stay with him in the classroom. The urgency to soothe him in his fevered dreams. Every instinct that had pushed her to touch him, to comfort him.
And at last, what she dreaded reading appeared before her eyes.
The pact could not be easily broken, because it was not merely an agreement—it was a magical bond that entwined their fates until the pact was fulfilled… or broken the right way.
Hermione shut the book abruptly, a bitter taste in her mouth. The sweet remnants of Draco’s kisses had vanished.
Draco mirrored her unease. They sat in silence, staring at each other, trapped in an uncomfortable reverie until a pointed throat-clearing broke the spell.
—The library is closing. —Madam Pince glared at them with unmistakable disapproval.
Hermione tensed. She wanted to take the book. Needed to.
But the librarian’s stern gaze left no room for negotiation.
Suppressing her frustration, Hermione rose from her seat. She would have to wait until tomorrow.
Though, after what they had just learned, she doubted she would get a wink of sleep that night.
Hermione hadn't been able to sleep all night. The first thought that crossed her mind was to speak with Headmaster Dumbledore. After all, perhaps his cryptic words after the spectacle with Draco at dinner had meant something. Surely, he knew what he was talking about, and neither she nor Draco had taken him seriously enough.
As soon as she felt it was a reasonable hour to use the bathroom without disturbing anyone’s sleep, she took a shower and got ready for the day. Not long after, she found herself waiting outside the Headmaster’s office. The moment she stepped inside, his words confirmed what she had begun to suspect—he knew something, or at the very least, he had his suspicions.
"Miss Granger, you certainly took your time coming to see me. Please, follow me."
The stone gargoyle shifted, revealing the spiral staircase that led up to his office. Dumbledore sat behind his desk and, with a mere glance, gestured for her to take the seat in front of him.
"Well?"
"Erm—" Hermione hesitated, unsure where to begin. She decided to focus on the most pressing matter—the alarming possibility that she had bound her magic to Draco Malfoy’s through a Fatum Ligare. She recounted the night they had gotten drunk together, carefully omitting the game they had played and, of course, the image she had seen through the window—the one that had pushed her into such reckless foolishness.
But the old wizard was too perceptive to deceive.
"I believe you are leaving out the most important part of your story, Miss Granger."
Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, and Dumbledore elaborated:
"If it is indeed a Fatum Ligare binding your magic to Mr. Malfoy’s—which, I must say, is a rather brilliant deduction—then certain conditions must have been met. I trust you have already researched them?"
Hermione felt judged. She attempted to explain that Madam Pince had not allowed her to take the book from the library, or else she would have already studied the subject extensively. But she chose to remain quiet, realizing she was better off absorbing the wisdom of the wizard before her before continuing her own research.
"First and foremost, there must be a personal motivation. My rather limited experience"—an almost laughable understatement from Dumbledore—"has shown me that, in many cases, the catalyst is nothing more than an emotional void. The witch or wizard who ends up bound seeks to fill that void with the illusion of whatever the other offers, and the emotions imbued in both parties at the time of the pact."
That thought sent Hermione’s mind spiraling. What could Draco possibly have offered her? The only answer that surfaced was Charlie Weasley—the longing to be with him, to be seen by him. Perhaps, on some level, she had wanted to be someone else, someone who could catch his attention. As for the emotions she had been feeling at that moment… anger, defiance, a hollow indifference toward love itself.
Dumbledore continued, as if reading her thoughts.
"It is those very emotions, Miss Granger, that form the core of the need being fulfilled—they are the heart of the pact itself. Surely, the words you and Mr. Malfoy spoke—which I advise you to keep secret, even from me—were charged with those emotions. They gave intentionality to your desires, and yes, Miss Granger, for a Fatum Ligare to take hold, both parties must not only share similar emotions but also a common intent."
A common intent. Hermione could only think of one thing—both she and Draco had been trying to draw the attention of certain professors.
Dumbledore observed her in silence for a moment before speaking again.
"It is good to see your perspective becoming clearer, Miss Granger."
Was he reading her mind? The very thought unsettled her, but the small, knowing smile he offered made her suspect she wasn’t entirely wrong.
"Furthermore," he continued, "these types of bonds include a rule—one that requires a level of commitment, something that makes it difficult to simply walk away when things become complicated."
The realization struck Hermione like a bolt of lightning. The consequences were now undeniable—distancing herself from Draco weakened her magic, and vice versa. But did that mean they had committed to something? And if so, what kind of commitment had they unwittingly made?
Dumbledore pressed on.
"That is not all, Miss Granger. A Fatum Ligare always includes a magical restriction. This, in fact, is the very soul of the pact, as it represents the binding enchantment that prevents the agreement from being broken—"
His piercing blue eyes fixed on her over his half-moon spectacles as he delivered the final words with grave emphasis.
"—without consequences."
Hermione felt lost. The heavy silence that followed made it clear that Dumbledore had said all there was to say. Slowly, she rose to her feet, murmured a quiet "Thank you," and gave a small nod before turning toward the staircase.
Just as she reached the threshold, the Headmaster spoke one last time.
"Be careful, Miss Granger. Magic such as this has a way of uncovering truths—truths we are not always prepared to face."
Hermione felt a shiver run down her spine.
Without saying another word, she left the office with a new certainty burning in her chest:
They were in trouble.